


Homecoming

by yaroantheo



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 1960s, AU: The Korean War lasts 11 years, Bisexual Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, California setting, Hawkeye must sufffer, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Post-Canon, Widower!BJ, domestic life, you’ve heard of BJ goes to maine now get ready for Hawkeye goes to California
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:32:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29784441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaroantheo/pseuds/yaroantheo
Summary: “Let me guess. You’re feeling lost. You’re feeling like you’ve changed. You’re feeling afraid to go home, since you’re not the man you were when you were last there. You’re afraid the mundanity of civilian life will drive you mad, and you won’t be able to admit it because you sure as hell don’t want to be back in Korea.“And you’re afraid that all that trauma, all those everyday horrors that just kept coming, one after the other, so fast you didn’t have time to process them, let alone let go of them, will all catch up to you at once the second you stop to catch your breath.”(Or, the one where BJ is discharged well before Hawkeye and is there to pick up the pieces when he finally lands)
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 13
Kudos: 17





	1. Prologue: May 12th, 1960

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! my first MASH fic. I did NOT foresee this turn of events when I started watching through old episodes of this wacky army doctor show on Hulu.... but here I am.
> 
> Disclaimer: I have read a sum total of one MASH fanfic, so if there's something in here that seems really similar to another fic, it is completely unintentional! I imagine that there are probably a good amount of tropes and commonalities floating around, like in any fandom. But I'm hunnihawk trash so
> 
> This is currently a WIP. I'm about 26k in, and somewhere around the halfway point. I seem to be incapable of writing short fics, so....sorry. 
> 
> And the title's subject to change because I am really bad at them! Oops. 
> 
> I didn't tag this as major character death because I don't really consider Peg a major character. Do heed the other warnings though. And if alcohol abuse is a sore spot for you, you might want to give this one a skip. And also probably the whole TV show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .

MAY 12th, 1960

It was supposed to be the other way around.

BJ felt distant, somehow, calm. It was like in the cartoons when a character ambled off a cliff but didn’t realize it until he looked down. Oh, he was in danger, but it hadn’t hit him yet.

All noise faded to a dull roar, and his ears actually felt clogged. He was suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the noise of his own heartbeat. 

It was supposed to go the other way around.

Humorous, actually, to even consider the alternative. Before he could stop himself, BJ felt a large ‘ha!’ force its way out of his chest. Potter, eyebrows furrowed solemnly, met his eyes, deep care written across his features that suddenly struck BJ as farcical.

“Son?” Sherman asked, reaching out a hand once more to rest on BJ’s shoulder.

“No, no,” BJ said, face twisting into a sort of rictus grin, again out of his control. “That’s a good one. Kinda cruel, but a good one. Peg can’t die, you see. I’m the one stranded in a war zone.” He wagged his finger a few times in midair and made to stand up, but Potter, from his perch at the edge of his own desk, brought his other hand firmly to BJ’s other shoulder and clamped him firmly back into his seat.

“Hunnicutt, I’m so sorry,” the Colonel said, squeezing him firmly with both hands as if to ground him. 

“Did Hawkeye put you up to this? Or was it Winchester? Seems a little cruel for him. Oh, I know. It was Frank, wasn’t it?”

“You know as well as I do that I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Burns in a long time,” Potter said, finally engaging with BJ’s delusions now that they were continuing past the point of immediate disbelief.

“She’s in California,” BJ said, and more laughter spilled out of him. “Land of the endless sunset. It’s the other way around.”

“BJ,” Potter tried. He loosened his grip on the Captain’s shoulders now that he was no longer attempting to break free. BJ’s hearing was retuning to normal, but the pure shock was setting in.

“She what? She  _ what? _ ” 

“She died saving Erin’s life,” Potter said softly, and this, somehow, was the message that got thorough to BJ. The bubble of shock that seemed to be inflating his mind and body burst, flooding his systems with pure horror.

“Oh my god. Oh Jesus. No,” BJ said. “How?”

“There was an automobile headed their way on the sidewalk. Faulty brakes,” Potter was telling him, but the room seemed to be spinning. BJ felt for the first time in his life, despite having made it through enough horrors for seven lifetimes over here in Korea, like he was going to pass out in sheer disbelief. He was only dimly aware that Potter was still talking. “She was able to push Erin to safety,” he finished, and the room was filled with silence.

BJ’s head pounded, and his chest felt tight. He wondered, vaguely, if he was having a heart attack. If he was hallucinating. If he had died and gone to hell.

Somewhere, miles away, Sherman rose, opening the door to his office just a crack. 

“Klinger,” he said softly. “Get Pierce.”

Minutes or months later, he was being lifted from his seat by someone’s solid arms-- Hawkeye. He must have been walking, leaning on his friend, but he seemed to be floating along in some horrifying daze. Then, a cot. He was being gently deposited on an army cot, though whether it was his or Hawk’s, he couldn’t tell. Around him, the Swamp swayed dangerously. Hawkeye sat next to him, pulled him into his arms. BJ allowed it, limply. Hawkeye was crying.

_ Why’s _ he  _ crying for  _ my  _ dead wife? _

My dead wife.

  
Finally, reality caught up to him with a horrible lurch, and he knew, through the torrent of incomprehensible emotions that flooded through him, that today was the day that would divide his life between  _ before _ and  _ after _ . 


	2. Your Mundane Family Practice Physician, BJ Hunnicutt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fourteen months later, BJ is settled into his new life back in California. He receives a letter from Hawkeye, still at the front, and some startling news.
> 
> Hawk and BJ can have a little epistolary intimacy, as a treat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a 2nd chap on the same day because a prologue's no fun.
> 
> If you haven't noticed by now, this takes place in an AU where the war lasted eleven years, one for each season of MASH. The characters have aged accordingly, and the year is now 1961. BJ is late thirties, Hawk is early forties. Erin, on the other hand, is still three. Pretend she was conceived on leave or something, idk. I will not be writing any middle schoolers. I flat-out refuse.

JULY 28th, 1961

The last patient of the day was a well baby visit. The mother, Doreen, had had three kids previously, and was an old pro. BJ checked the baby’s measurements and vitals, and made his way down the standard questionnaire. He examined the baby’s body and its reflexes, checked the eyes and ears, and returned him to his mother. 

“So, no questions or concerns?”

“No, Doctor,” she said as she redressed her infant son. 

“Well, then that’s it for me,” BJ said, gathering his notes with a smile. “Nurse Welton will be in in a few moments to administer his six month vaccines. Give my best to Mr. Lahey and the girls.”

“Will do, Doctor.”

BJ shut the examination room door behind him, and checked his watch. It was 5:34. His day had run over schedule. He had 26 minutes to get to Erin’s daycare. 

“Hey, Roseanne?” He asked, grabbing Nurse Welton gently by the arm to grab her attention. “I’m gonna have to take my charts home with me tonight. Can’t keep racking up those overtime fees at the daycare.”

“Of course, Dr. Hunnicutt,” she said, eyes full of a compassionate pity that made him feel on edge. “I can close everything up for you.”

“Thanks, Nurse Welton. I appreciate it.” BJ turned away. She and Nurse George— Alice— had both been absolute lifesavers since BJ’s partner, Dr. Morris, whose family practice BJ was hired to take over, had retired. But the days ran longer than he could afford, with a toddler in daycare, and with only one doctor, the day was crammed with patients. More days than not, BJ found himself loading a box full of charts to do at home, at the kitchen table, into the late hours after he put Erin down. Both nurses knew his busy schedule well, and took on what was possibly more of their fair share of the office drudgery, and BJ supposed their doe-eyes looks of sympathy were the price he paid for their service. 

_ It’s been over a year, _ BJ thought to himself as he packed his charts and his lunchbox into a wooden box.  _ When will they stop treating me like I’m more glass than man? _

The ladies at the daycare were no better. Working mothers got a bad rap around here, to be sure, but nothing was more anomalous than a single father. By the time BJ had extracted Erin from the brightly colored Threes Room, and after placating her toy-withdrawal meltdown with a couple dozen little kisses, BJ felt a bit on edge. 

The radio was usually set to news radio, but Erin had recently decided she hated the sound of the presenters’ voices, so he switched it to an inoffensive popular music station. Erin giggled in the backseat as BJ sung along, purposefully terrible, making eye contact with her in her little kiddie car seat whenever he could. 

When they arrived at their home, which had been chosen for its proximity to the practice rather than the daycare, BJ parked the car in the drive and balanced Erin on his hip with one hand, and the charts with the other. He tended to keep the backdoor unlocked for this very purpose, and let Erin feel helpful and wanted by having her twist the doorknob. 

The house was lovely. The rooms were small, but there were plenty of them. It was two stories tall, with a garage out back that BJ seldom used, preferring to park on the drive for simplicity’s sake. (Besides, that was where he stored the large crates of Peg’s belongings; those he hadn’t passed along to her sister and parents.) on the first floor, there was a pleasant, sunny little kitchen, a decently sized dining room, and a comfortable living room. Upstairs, there were three bedrooms and a bathroom, replete with a bathtub. Perfect for two people. Too large, even. Peg would have loved it. 

BJ set Erin up in the living room with her large plastic dollhouse, where, he had to admit, it lived most of the time. It wasn’t as if he did a lot of entertaining, and those who came by tended to cut the young, tragic widower some slack. He set a pot of water on the electric stovetop to boil, and rooted around in the cabinets for a box of pasta and a jar of sauce. While the macaroni cooked, he made his way through the first two charts of the evening, and set them aside to serve dinner. 

Erin ate independently, but a meal like marinara pasta was bound to go everywhere. Once they had finished, BJ scooped her out of the high chair and upstairs for a bath. He bundled both their clothes into the washing machine and played with his daughter’s little rubber ducks and boats. Then, it was PJ time, and then stories, and then bed. She went down easily, like she always did after a day at the daycare, and by the time BJ got downstairs it was around 8:30 PM. 

He felt the usual ache of sorrow at the fact that his daughter had already stopped asking where Mommy was for a goodnight kiss, and he went to the mantelpiece in the living room for a long, bittersweet look at the pictures that stood there. Peg as a teenager, her sister Marnie’s arm tossed around her shoulder, both their faces lit up with laughter at some long-forgotten joke. Peg and BJ, at their wedding photo shoot, three days before the big day. The big day itself: the newlyweds emerging from the chapel, overjoyed, rice and flower petals white blurs in the air. A color photograph of Peg that she’d had taken only a few weeks before her death, that she had been planning to send overseas to Korea. And finally, a candid photograph of Peg, holding Erin, cross-legged on a gingham picnic blanket in her parents’ backyard. BJ’s father-in-law had sent it along last month, having finally felt equal to the task of getting his last roll of photos with her developed. 

BJ sighed, placing that last one, his favorite, back on the stone mantle above the unused fireplace. 

Who needed a fireplace in California? BJ shook his head and turned away. He hadn’t exactly had the capability to be very discerning during the house hunt. 

BJ filled out a few more charts. Some days, he chafed at the mundanity. Sprained ankles, sore throats, recommendations for prenatal vitamins, and prescriptions for antibiotics had become his knee reality. Surgery was a distant dream. He’d looked into it, but as Erin’s sole caregiver, the unpredictability and long hours had not been a viable option. The only time he used a scalpel these days was to free an ingrown toenail or lance some guy’s boil. 

Did he miss the horrifying injuries, grueling intensity, and the near constant specter of death and violence of the Korean OR?

_ Hell no _ , BJ thought. But there, he’d found challenge, and stimulation. 

There were only two things he really missed about his years in Korea. The first was that Peg was alive. Absent, but alive, and a constant promise of the life that awaited him as soon as he could get out of the war zone. The second thing was the people who’d populated the 4077th. 

BJ sighed. Thoughts of Peg, he knew, would spiral into a dismal depression if he started up this early. He stood, unable to focus on the remainder of his charts. Trusting that Erin would be alright in the ninety seconds it would take for the round trip to the mailbox, BJ stepped into the warm summer evening, comforted by the sounds of the cicadas and the beautiful purple glow of dusk, he fished a few envelopes and the day’s newspaper from the curbside mailbox and made his way back to the house. 

The paper tucked beneath his arm, he paged through the letters. A bill for one of his magazines. An alumni newsletter from his high school. A postcard from Marnie, his sister-in-law. And finally, the last envelope. BJ felt a small smile spread across his face despite his troubled mood. He set the rest of the mail on the flat porch railing, and cracked the front door so he could listen in case Erin called out. 

A letter from Hawkeye. To his friend’s credit, he wrote nearly every day, when he wasn’t sewing up teenage GIs for fourteen hours, though the mail situation back in Korea meant they tended to arrive in bulk, six or seven coming at once. Today, there was only one. BJ opened it with his pocket knife, careful not to cut into the letter itself. He was seated on the porch swing, and he swung himself slowly back and forth with his left foot. 

He missed Hawkeye profoundly. It had been entirely unexpected, given the deep, soul-wrenching despair that came from losing your wife to a freak accident in her thirties. He’d done a lot of thinking, late at night, when the sorrow of Peg’s loss kept his eyes open until light began filtering in through the blinds, or when another harrowing Korean nightmare woke him in a cold sweat. It was the fact that, for years, Hawkeye had been the closest person to him. They’d been inseparable, sharing a constant stream of conversation and hijinks, and had leaned on each other during the darkest hours of their service. 

And to go through the loss of Peg without the one person he should have been able to reach for as a support, well, that was a second harsh blow. 

And so the constant letters had been a source of great comfort to BJ, and he felt a small glow in his chest that made him feel a little less alone. He made a mental note to write up a response tonight, as soon as he was finished with his last few charts. He set the envelope aside and began to read. 

_ July 3rd, 1961 _

_ Hi Beej— _

_ Klinger tells us that there’s a bit of hold up somewhere along the line, so this may not get to you for a while. Sorry about that. The Army runs its postal service just about as efficiently as everything else in its purview— you know the drill.  _

_ I know California’s no icebox in the summertime either, but boy, has it been one of those months that gave the Swamp its evocative moniker. Every time you walk past some stagnant water, you can practically hear the mosquitos breeding. The air itself is so muggy that I’ve half a mind to grab a knife from the mess and check my hypothesis, which is that with the proper tools, I might be able to cut off a solid piece if I try hard enough. I go about the tent in naught but my boxer shorts, a fact which at first caused our dearest Charles no small amount of chagrin, until he was forced to do the same a few days later. Bet you’re sitting pretty right about now with your big ol’ air conditioning unit. Take in a nice cool breeze for me, or an extra sip of iced water, and I’m sure I’ll be able to feel it. Thanks in advance.  _

_ We’ve been getting heavily trafficked the past few weeks, as I’ve said. I don’t want to bog you down with the details, as there’s enough bog in this paper already from the Korean summer air— hope you didn’t have to wring out my letter before reading, ha. Anyhow, suffice it to say that there seems to have been a worrisome uptick in the frequency of the fighting. We’re hearing rumors of some kind of accords, but you’d never know it by the rate by which we’ve been using up our special sewing thread. Twice we’ve had to go around the village to ask for blood donations. Potter’s been in a grim mood.  _

_ But I don’t want to plague you with images I have no doubt you’ve been trying to forget. I know the last thing I would want to hear when I finally get my leave and go is a detailed rundown of my quotidian horrors.  _

_ Margaret just poked her head in, asking me if I’d like to head to the O club, but I said no, I wanted to finish my letter. She sends her absolute best, and tells me to pass on that she’s sending you a letter soon, and to be on the lookout. She loves and misses you, and says to give Erin a big kiss on her behalf.  _

_ Yesterday, we had a bit of a break in the surgical department. We were all set to start an informal little basketball tournament, but we were only a few minutes in when a torrential downpour began. We were all soaked! Father Mulcahy— who, by the way, also sends his regards— herded everyone into the mess and set up that makeshift bowling alley again. It was just what everyone needed for morale. Everyone except the poor schmucks on kitchen duty, that is.  _

_ Oh, how could I forget? The other day, we were coming in from a long shift in the O.R. I think it was about ten hours total. Dr. Schwartz— that’s the lastest of your replacements, in case I haven’t mentioned him yet. He’s around 50, balder than Charles, with the sense of humor of an old tin doorknob, but he’s a good man, I guess. Where was I? Okay, so we were all headed back to the swamp. Now mind you, I’d been with Charles for the last 24 hours or more, barely out of each other’s sight. But he pulls back his covers— they weren’t made, we got the call to triage in the middle of the night— and finds an enormous green toad! It was making its home in Charles’s bunk! He hollered so loud that one of the new nurses came running! You’d have been in stitches.  _

_ What else? Hmmm. Oh, Father Mulcahy managed to cultivate a few strawberries in his garden this year. Not a lot, but as a special treat Sherm had the cook do up a big old cake. No frosting or anything, mostly just flour, sugar, and the occasional strawberry chunk, but it sure felt a bit like heaven. I’d have committed just about any crime in the world for a half cup of fresh whipped cream, though.  _

_ I don’t know why, but the height of summertime is when I find myself missing Maine the most. The summers are a lot more temperate, and the swimming is divine. One day, I’ll have you out there for a few weeks. We’ll take a couple of pails out into the woods, and a tiny basket for Erin, and we’ll fill them up with so many fresh blueberries we’ll be up to our ears in them for weeks. You’ve never tasted anything like fresh Maine blueberries, I promise you that. I cannot believe it’s been over a decade since I last had them myself. ~~Sometimes I look in the mirror and I—~~ _

Here, Hawkeye had crossed out a few lines, and BJ could only make out half a sentence. 

_ Um…. Positive news. What else is positive? Colonel Potter found out he’s becoming a grandfather another time over. He’s thrilled about it. He has a gut feeling it’ll be a girl.  _

_ BJ, I live for your letters. I know you’ve had your fair share of experience with epistolary bliss, and how sometimes it’s the only bright spot in an incorrigibly downtrodden way of life. I’ve been meaning to send a few words about how much it’s meant to me. Camp is, obviously, nowhere near the same without you, as I’ve stated many times and will state many more. If we get some more down time soon I’ll try to give you a ring. You’re on my mind whenever surgery isn’t. I hope you’re doing well— as well as can be expected. You’re one of the strongest people I know.  _

_ Don’t wish you were here, but I do miss the stuffing out of you.  _

_ Yours, Hawk.  _

_ P.S. After you give her Margaret’s kiss, ruffle up Erin’s hair for me, would ya? _

BJ looked at the paper for a long time after he’d finished reading, lost in thought. Missing his best friend was a special kind of ache, one that felt sweeter than the other, harder sorrow in his life. It was true what Hawkeye had said about letters being a bright spot in his life, only he got the impression Pierce didn’t realize how, even after having been let out on a hardship discharge for Erin’s sake, it was still true. It was a debate he had with himself a lot: would he rather be back in the hell that was Korea, or be here, all alone? Of course, he wasn’t alone. He had Erin, and, impossibly, loved her more and more every day. But a toddler was not someone he could confide in or joke around with. 

BJ tried once more to read the half-paragraph that had been self-censored by Hawk. By this point in the evening, the light had faded to a dark, dusky purple. He grabbed the rest of his mail and headed inside, tossing the newspaper and other letters onto the table. 

He turned on the overhead light in the kitchen, and held the letter up to it, but couldn’t make out what Hawk was saying. He caught a few words:  _ fear, aging, imprisonment _ . Then, at the end of the redacted section:  _ could I dare…to you? ...what you’re going through.  _

BJ signed, running a hand through his hair. Even Hawkeye seemed hell bent on treating him with kid gloves. War was hell; BJ knew it. He wished that Hawkeye didn’t feel the need to present a rosy picture all the time. In his letters, Hawkeye had a tendency to skirt around the harsh things BJ knew he must be going through. He knew— they’d spoken on the phone once or twice, and Hawk had alluded to as much— that Hawkeye was terribly lonely without BJ there, but he was too stubborn to say so explicitly, not under the circumstances of their separation.

_ Honestly, sometimes he’s on my mind more than Peg.  _

But that wasn’t fair, and possibly not even true. It’s just that missing Hawkeye was a safer kind of pain. Missing Peg was a devastating chasm that he had to stay far away from, lest he tumble in and not be able to find a way back out. 

Still, a year was a year, and the acute agony had sort of distilled into a constant, ever-present ache. He was learning to live with it. He had to, for Erin’s sake, and his own.

BJ sat down, intending to finish the rest of his charts, but he no longer felt like he was in the right mindset. Instead, he made for the desk in the living room and pulled out his stationary. 

_ Dear Hawkeye, _

_ Glad as ever to receive another letter from Hell. I’ve just received one dated from July 3rd— you talk about strawberries, blueberries, and toads, in no particular order. Margaret’s letter that you mentioned actually arrived a few days ago. Who honestly knows how?  _

_ I wanted to let you know a thought that crossed my mind when I read your latest note. I could tell you scratched out a few sentences, possibly in some well-meaning but unnecessary attempt to spare me the darker thoughts that are on your mind. You and the entire West Coast, buddy. I just wanted to say that there’s no need to censor yourself on my behalf. I would be more than happy to listen to the things that are on your mind, good and bad. God only knows you’ve read your fair share of my own heartaches this past year, even the incoherent ramblings, even the nonsensical sentence fragments from those early days. There’s no contest on suffering. It pains me to think that you have no one to whom to bear your soul. Hopefully, at least you borrow an ear off Potter or Mulcahy or Margaret now and again, if not me. But I know you, and I know that you probably don’t accept that nearly as often as you should.  _

_ As you know, I still dream of Korea, of the violence and bloodshed mostly, but also strange happenings that have to do with daily life in the 4077th. Things like, say, Klinger getting some ancient curse that turns him into an actual woman, or getting incoming wounded during a three legged race and we all rush off to surgery still tied together. You were my partner in that one, by the way. But those are fewer and further between than the nightmares. The point of which is to say, I suppose, that if you’re trying to spare me any painful reminders, know that it’s a moot point. I’m getting reminded plenty. The Fourth of July was a little bit rough, in all honesty. I had to put on a record pretty loud. What you should take from all this is that I’d love to hear anything and everything you want to write about. I miss having you in my life and I’d hate to think I’m getting only part of you.  _

_ Most people around here, too, tend to avoid bringing up anything unpleasant, whether because they think nothing compares to losing Peg or because they don’t want to burden me further, I can’t tell. All I know is I find it damn frustrating.  _

_ The truth is, and hell, I may turn flat out hypocritical here in a second and scribble this all to hell when I get through, but I think I feel better than most people assume. That sounds bad. Don’t get me wrong, losing Peg was the worst thing I’ve ever gone through in my entire life, and that includes such greatest hits as receiving my draft letter, arriving in Korea, and every time I watched a young boy take his last breath on my operating table. I cannot describe to you the depth of that pain, and I say with utmost sincerity that I pray you never, ever have to endure the same.  _

_ But I have this horrible, guilty feeling, and I don’t know whether i'll send this part, but here goes. The truth is I hadn’t seen Peg in six years, Hawk. I thought about her every day while I was over there. I couldn’t wait to get back into her arms, to see her smile and hear her laughter. But this guilty part of me wonders if the pain wouldn’t have been more acute had I spent those six years Stateside with her next to me. And of course, the fact that we were apart longer than we were married and together means that there’s an extra layer of bitterness to her loss, that she was here for so long and I was robbed of it by the U.S. Army. And I can’t help but wonder, if I was never drafted, would she have been there, on that exact sidewalk, at that exact time? Would we have been somewhere together? Would I have walked with her? I’d have happily died in her place.  _

_ So it’s immensely complicated, as you can see. But the way people treat me just drives me up a tree sometimes.  _

_ Wait, to backtrack a bit, I think I’ve found a way to explain it. It’s a damn shame, but sometimes it feels like I did my mourning for Peg during my first years in Korea, and when I got home, I was mourning the years we lost. I hadn’t seen her face in six years.  _

_ But that’s just one side of it. At the end of the day, I’ve lost my wife, and that’s a devastating blow.  _

_ I think…. it might be weird to say, Hawk, but lately I’ve been feeling your absence like a missing limb, if I may be so bold. I was reflecting earlier and I realized just how damn hard it was to go through this all with the one person I’ve come to rely on for emotional support and laughter. Of course, it’s a catch-22. If we were still together, then I wouldn’t have lost Peg, and I wouldn’t need quite so much friendship at all.  _

_ Your offer of hosting me during the height of blueberry season in Maine warmed me to my very core. I think we should plan for that, or for you to come to California during whatever fruit season you desire. It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that you’ve never met Erin. Two of the foremost people in my entire life, and they’ve never laid eyes on each other. I’d love for you to be a part of her life, and I think the image of taking her blueberry picking made that clear to me.  _

_ Sorry for the emotional dump, Hawk. I’ve said before how I have very little contact with adults, outside of a professional setting. No one to really confess anything to. And I think we’ve both been finding that it’s easier to write down sappy truths like this than to say them out loud. But fuck it— I think you’ve always known, in a tacit sort of way. And losing Peg has made me frankly terrified of ever letting anyone die again with things unsaid.  _

_ And you can’t say phone call to me and not follow through! I await it with bated breath.  _

_ Thanks for being my confessor. Sorry for the emotional slog. Losing one’s wife has a way of bringing it out, I guess.  _

_ So, let me take a leaf from your book for a sec. What positive things are there for me to write about? Well, Dr. Morris— that’s the man who hired me out of pity last summer and practically signed me over his practice— he’s finally retired, and his wife threw him a nice dinner party. I haven’t had much to drink in a very long time. Erin has away of ruling that out, but I left her with Peg’s mom and dad for the night. It was nice to drink for celebration, rather than coping. You should try it sometime. Mrs. Morris made crab cakes, miniature quiches, and roasted asparagus. There was a tiramisù for dessert. But I shouldn’t go into too much detail, lest you drool all over the page and render the rest of my letter unreadable.  _

_ So far no luck on the partner front. Interviewed a doctor fresh out of med school in Arizona, but he wound up accepting a job closer to home. The only thing keeping me from not snapping under my workload is how much worse I had it in Korea.  _

_ You were right about that air conditioner. I do have one, and it is heavenly. It would change your life there in the Swamp— those ninety degree nights are no joke. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, for sure.  _

_ I have to sign off now, I’m afraid. Charts wait for no man. I’ll give Erin your love in the morning. _

_ Your mundane family practice physician, _

_ BJ Hunnicutt _

_ P.S. It’s not the real thing, but I’ll try to send a package with some dried fruit at some point soon. _

  
  


BJ let out a long exhale. As usual, the letter writing process had been cathartic. Still, it was probably a good idea not to seal it up just yet. A habit he had gotten into during those hellish early months was to always give his letters a once-over the next morning, and to leave out some of the most vulnerable emotionality if need be. Still, he and Hawkeye had always been close enough to share this kind of thing, and, thinking on it now, BJ wondered if this sort of thing what exactly what he’d chewed Pierce out for in the letter. 

The rest of the charts went relatively quickly. BJ barely had to use his mind. It was just rote paperwork, and though he was tired, it wasn’t too painful. He packed all his paperwork back into its container to bring back tomorrow and decided he’d try to read one of his library books before bed after he’d brushed his teeth.

As an afterthought, he remembered the newspaper, and opened it up to skim the headlines. At the sight of the first title, all thoughts of sleep vanished. The world was suddenly an entirely new place.

The Korean war had reached an armistice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He'll get here soon, I promise.
> 
> Also, I'm the type of person who would be THRILLED if my readers pointed out any typos. I've done most of my writing on the Google Docs app on my phone, and it makes some really weird corrections that I don't always catch. I also tend to accidentally capitalize two letters in proper nouns when I'm on my desktop computer, so if you see something like HAwkeye or ERin please let me know!! My brain isn't good at actually catching my mistakes when I re-read my work.
> 
> And please let me know what you think! I'm new in town.


	3. I Just Flew In, And Boy My Arms Are Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye makes a last-minute decision. (The Maine train might bring pain? Can’t explain)

JULY 31st, 1961   
  


Hawkeye Pierce was roused by the motions of a plane juddering as it landed on the tarmac. The duffle bag he was using as a pillow was not nearly soft enough to cushion his head, and he sat up reluctantly as his mind de-clouded from its slumber. 

Through the plane window, Hawkeye couldn’t see very much. Just a handful of low, warehouse-like buildings in standard army green, washed in the golden light of early evening. Someone had told him the name of the military base they would be flying into, but it hadn’t stuck.

Beside him, Major Houlihan was rooting around in her purse for a tube of lipstick. Hawkeye yawned widely, which made Margaret yawn, and she gave him a scowl with no real venom when it made the application process tricky. Hawkeye’s stomach twisted slightly, which caught him off guard. The last few days had been a nonstop whirlwind of exhilaration and celebration, punctuated with brief bouts of sleep, the drudgery of camp tear-down, and tearful goodbyes as the population of the 4077th MASH had departed busful by busful. Soon, it was only a few of his closest friends remaining, along with a handful of Corporal types he hardly knew. He and Margaret had boarded the same airplane headed Stateside, and flown across the Pacific from Tokyo to just outside San Francisco together. But he’d slept through the latter half of their flight, and now that it was time to say goodbye, he was hardly prepared.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Margaret said, busy as ever gathering up her belongings. Most of their things were packed in the belly of the plane, down below, but enough of their stuff had been scattered during the long flight that it took a few moments to tidy up. Sensing Hawkeye’s slight disorientation, Margaret began to pack his book, flask, letters, and snacks into his rucksack.

“Thanks,” Hawkeye said, accepting it from her when she’d finished. Margaret was bound for Houston for a few days, and then on to Washington, D.C., while Hawkeye had a civilian flight to Boston, the closest the Army was willing to take him to Maine.

After the people closer to the ramp had disembarked, Hawkey hefted his and Margaret’s duffles over his shoulder and followed her down to the tarmac. A few men whose families lived in California were joyously reuniting with their sons, husbands, and fathers, but the majority of folks were just waiting for the remainders of their luggage to be pulled from the cargo compartments. Hawkeye found an empty patch of real estate and set down their green canvas bags.

He and Margaret didn’t speak. Hawkeye felt a bit overwhelmed at the looming farewell. Beside him was one of the few people who had been in the 4077th when he arrived, and was still there when he left. By the way she was avoiding his eyes, and swiping at a tear now and again, Hawkeye assumed she was feeling about the same way. Wordlessly, he slipped his hand into hers and squeezed. She flashed him a sad smile, and squeezed back.

After a few minutes, a couple of GIs stationed at the base opened up the cargo holds and began unceremoniously dumping the crates and duffles onto the tarmac below. Everyone’s things looked identical, so Hawkeye waited a few minutes to get better access. First came the men with their families, eager to get the hell out of Dodge and back to their interrupted lives. Then the rest of the folks came in. Hawkeye had used his officer’s status, and a few strings Klinger pulled for him, to get most of his stuff shipped ahead to Crabapple Cove, so he helped Margaret move her stuff to the Texas-bound plane first.

“Well,” she said, standing in front of the boarding ramp. Her eyes were welling once again with tears. “I guess this is goodbye.”

“Oh, Margaret,” Hawkeye said, pulling her into a tight hug. The last few days of excess and wacky sleep scheduling had him feeling especially vulnerable to sad emotions, and they clung tightly to each other for a very long time.

“‘Ey, Houlihan?” An unshaved sargeant with a thick New Jersey accent called out to her. “Gotta be Houlihan. Unless you’re Major Margaret,” he said, gesturing at Hawkeye.

“No, no, that’s me,” she said, pulling back from Hawkeye and smoothing out her dress uniform. 

“Well, get a move on, would ya? We’re all waitin’ on you, chief.”

In another situation, Hawkeye knew she’d have snapped at him for the way he was addressing a superior officer, but she just ducked her head and nodded. Hawkeye reached out and gave her arm one last squeeze.

“It’s not goodbye, just see ya later,” he reminded her.

“I know I gave you a hard time sometimes,” Margaret began.

“No, no, don’t,” he replied, waving a hand. They had reached a tacit agreement to let bygones be bygones long ago.

“But it’s been a real honor.” She picked up her last bag; the grizzly sergeant had been tossing her luggage into the cargo hold. “Promise to write?”

“Cross my heart, hope to die.” He patted his breast pocket where she’d written her new D.C. address on a scrap of paper.

“Bye, Hawk.”

“Goodbye, dear Margaret.”

Hawkeye stood back and waved as the plane began move away. From the window, Margaret dried her eyes as she waved back, and then she was out of sight.

Hawkeye sighed deeply, then headed back to the tarmac where he’d left his two duffle bags and his rucksack. His orders were to report to some desk inside, get his paperwork filed, and then a driver would take him to the San Francisco airport.

Just under an hour later, Hawkeye was free of army life. The driver, a Corporal Landon, wasn’t much of a talker, and for once in his life, Hawkeye didn’t really feel like filling in the gaps. It was a jarring sight to see America pass by through the windows, and he felt a bit dizzy. He focused instead on the letter in his lap.

At the airport, Corporal Landon unceremoniously booted him at the curb, ejecting his bags with two twin thumps. Hawkeye’s gut twisted, and he felt a strange urge to vomit, despite having drained the last of his flask with Margaret almost twelve hours ago, somewhere above the Pacific Ocean. The sandwich he’d eaten had long since metabolized as well, but he was far more nauseous than hungry.

Suddenly, with Margaret gone, probably approaching the desert by now, and the unease of the car ride behind him, he was suddenly, unavoidably faced with the prospect of heading to his beloved and much-missed home for the first time in eleven years.

So he did what any sane man would do. He returned his ticket for cash at the window, and headed back to the curb to hail a taxi to Mill Valley. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ye olde reunion is so close I can smell it. Please LMK if you see any typos!! The google docs iPhone app makes some bizarre autocorrections sometimes.


	4. Who Can It Be Knocking On My Door?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who can it be now?  
> (Oh, wee oh) Who can it, Who can it  
> (Ooh ooh) Who can it be now?  
> (Ooh ooh wee) Yeah yeah yeah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I make BJ eat a sandwich I ate a few weeks ago and have been thinking about ever since? no (heart emoji)

JULY 31ST, 1961

BJ closed the jar of basil pesto he had been spreading on crackers for part of Erin’s dinner. He portioned out a handful of baby carrot sticks and sliced some cheddar cheese into small enough cubes that if the forgot to chew, she wouldn’t choke. She had been getting a lot better about eating carefully in the past few months, but BJ would rather be safe than sorry. He put her little plastic tray in front of her on the high chair and returned to the kitchen counter to prepare his own dinner: a grilled turkey sandwich with the same pesto and a few slices of cheddar jack cheese.

He had checked the mailbox before even getting into the house this evening, but there was no word from Hawkeye, or anyone else at the 4077th. Just a note from Veteran’s Affairs officially informing him of the Korean War’s end, full of jingoistic speech that BJ detested, and a personal thanks for his specific part in defending democracy and freedom. BJ had rolled his eyes and tossed it in the trash, then fished it back out to jot down his nascent grocery list:  _ buy chocolate milk _ .

All his attempts to get through to the 4077th by telephone had fallen short as well. The line was busy, day and night. Once he had gotten through to a very apologetic and drunk-sounding Klinger, but their conversation had lasted all of fifteen seconds before the company clerk had needed to call some headquarters or other. BJ didn’t know if Hawkeye and the others would be heading home through Korea, and it made him anxious and restive to think he might have missed them at the Army base, simply because he didn’t know when to show up. He’d gotten another letter from Hawkeye on Saturday, but it was another delayed one, and had been written two weeks before the armistice had been negotiated. 

“Daddy, I spilled it,” Erin said, her voice serious. BJ carried his sandwich, untoasted, over to the dining room table to survey the damage. A single pesto cracker had been ejected from the high chair’s tray table, and now laid face down on the floor.

“Well, Erin, that’s why we picked a house with hardwood floors,” he told her, not expecting her to quite understand.

“Sorry,” Erin said. BJ patted her head to show her that he wasn’t mad, and went to grab a wet rag from the kitchen. 

He was rinsing the green stains from the rag, and thinking about whether to bother toasting his sandwich or just eat it raw, when the doorbell rang. The kitchen was in the back of the house, its windows overlooking the back porch, backyard, and garage, so he couldn’t see who was there. He didn’t exactly get a constant stream of visitors, and hardly any came during dinnertime. An unspoken but rigidly followed rule of the suburbs, apparently. 

“Who’s there?” Erin asked around a mouthful of cheddar cheese.

“No talking with your mouth full,” BJ parroted automatically before remembering to answer her question. “I’m not sure, bug,” he said. “I’ll have to go answer it.” He wiped his hands dry on the back of his trousers as he headed to the front door. The bell rang out again just as he unlatched the bolt and swung the door open.

BJ was practically tackled before he could even register his guest. 

“What the hell?” he gasped as he teetered precariously backwards, managing, but only just, to retain his balance to keep himself and his assailant from plummeting to the floor. Finally, BJ clocked his guest just as he was pulling back from the tackle-hug.

He felt stunned, flat out shocked.

“Hi Beej,” said one Benjamin Franklin Pierce, beaming from ear to ear and looking exactly the same as BJ remembered, impish gleam in his eye.

“Hawkeye,” BJ managed finally. It was his turn to tackle Hawkeye, and they came together in a rib-crushing hug. “Oh my god.”

“Hey, did you hear?” Hawkeye asked, grinning, as they finally pulled apart. “The war’s over.”

“It’s really you.”

“It’s really me, baby.”   


“War’s over,” BJ echoed. He felt a little bit dazed. He hadn’t felt such unadulterated joy in far too long.

“So, are you gonna let me inside that picket fence of yours, or are you just gonna bring her out to me?”

“What? Oh yeah,” BJ said, stepping out of the doorway. “Let me grab one of your bags.”

“Thanks,” Hawkeye said, hoisting the bulkier of the two over his shoulder and carrying it inside.

“You can set that anywhere for now,” BJ said. “How long do I have you?” He glanced back at Hawk, whose smile grew a little tight, but BJ paid it no mind. 

“Well, I guess until I head to the airport and buy another ticket,” he said with a shrug. He returned that easy smile to his face, but there was still a bit of doubt in his eyes. BJ was quick to reassure him.

“Well I’d be thrilled to have you stay as long as you want,” he said, smiling broadly to show that he meant it. “But I guess eventually it'll be me and your dad in the ring with you as the title belt."

Something was wrong. Hawkeye’s grin vanished, and he ducked his head. A question formed on BJ’s lips, but he was cut off by Erin’s tentative voice from the dining room.

“Daddy? Who's there?”

“C’mon, Hawk,” BJ said, setting the bag he held on top of its bigger twin in the hallway. “Got someone for you to meet.”

Erin’s blue eyes were big as she took in the sight of a new stranger in her house. She looked to BJ to make sure she was okay, and he smiled at her before tossing an arm over Hawkeye’s shoulder. 

“Babybug, this is my friend Hawkeye,” he said. “I’ve told you about him before, remember?”

Erin didn’t reply, suddenly shy. She hid her eyes behind her hands. Hawkeye walked across the room, and he knelt next to her high chair.

“Hi Erin,” he said, softly, and BJ suddenly felt something strong and overwhelming in his chest. He came to stand behind Hawkeye so that his daughter would feel safe.

“It’s okay, Erin,” he said. “He’s very nice.”

“I’m really happy to meet you,” Hawkeye said, and slowly Erin peeked out from behind her hands. “I’m Hawkeye."

“Hawkeye?” Erin repeated, trying out the strange word.

“That’s right,” Hawk confirmed, smiling softly. BJ felt the need to look away, the joy in his heart too painful. “But, with your daddy’s permission, you can call me uncle, if you want.”

“Uncle Larry?” Erin asked, referring to Marnie’s husband, who was the only uncle she knew. 

“Not exactly,” BJ said. “This is Uncle Hawkeye. He’s going to be staying in the spare bedroom for awhile.”

Erin nodded solemnly. Introduction finished, Hawkeye stood, and took a few steps back. 

“I was just about to eat dinner, if you want some,” BJ said, nodding his head towards his turkey sandwich, which sat, plateless, on the dining room table. Hawkeye raised a teasing eyebrow. “And for an extra fee, I’ll even dig out a plate.”

“A plate? You spoil me,” Hawk said. “Any old rusty tray will do.”

“I’m afraid I’m clean out.”

“Damn. Uh— darn. I guess civilian life ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Shut up. I know you’re thrilled.”

“Thrilled? Beej, I’m ecstatic,” Hawkeye said, shaking his head in wonder. “Eleven damn— shit,  _ darn— _ ”

“No S. H. word,” BJ reminded him.

“Shoot, darn,” Hawkeye said.

“‘Fraid I can’t offer much in the way of a celebratory feast,” BJ said, opening the fridge. “It won’t be a very exciting reintroduction to the wonders of civilian fare.”

“You’re assuming I haven’t already gorged myself on the finest American cuisine on the way over.”

“And did you?”

“No,” Hawkeye admitted. “I was falling all over myself to see your shining face instead.” He reached out and pinched BJ’s cheek like a church granny greeting a local schoolboy. 

“You must be starving,” BJ said, ducking the pinch. 

“Yeah. Sorry for gobbling up your groceries,” Hawkeye said, not sounding apologetic in the least. “But whatever you have will taste like a king’s feast, I promise.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” BJ said. “I’ve definitely made more money than you have in the past year. And I have definitely not been blowing it on booze.”

“Still, though, I can go and pick some stuff up tomorrow,” Hawkeye said.

“Only if it’ll put your mind at ease. Or are my turkey sandwiches aren’t good enough for you?” BJ joked. “Here, catch.” He lofted the jar of pesto through the air, and Hawkeye caught it easily. BJ found himself torn from the task at hand, blinking a few times to make sure Hawkeye was really there.

“My  _ god _ , is it good to see you,” he said eventually, before turning back to the fridge to find the turkey, cheese, and mayonnaise.

* * *

After dinner, BJ went upstairs for Erin’s bathtime while Hawkeye got settled into the spare bedroom. BJ had had other priorities in the past year than furnishing and decorating it, but it had a bed. It was a queen size, the one that Marnie and her husband slept on when they stayed over, or the Haydens, BJ’s in-laws. BJ’s own parents lived only forty minutes away, so they didn’t stay over. There was a dresser Larry had brought over when they’d redecorated their own master bedroom, and a vase of silk lilies that he’d bought for ten cents at a yard sale down the block. 

Over the weekend, BJ hadn’t wanted to be too far from the telephone in case he got a call from Korea, so they hadn’t made their usual Saturday trip to the park and the library. After negotiating story time with Erin, coaxing her to read a story they had already read, he put her to sleep, switched the nightlight on, checked beneath the bed for monsters, and left the door open just a crack the way she liked it. 

Hawkeye was already back downstairs when BJ was finished. He had a letter in in hand, not one of BJ’s by the look of the stationery, and he stuffed it hastily back into his pocket when he heard BJ approach.

“Beej, your place is lovely,” he said, nodding with approval. 

“Thanks,” BJ said. “It’s been….”

“I was surprised to read that you moved,” Hawkeye said. “After all you went through to pick out that house with Peg.”

“Yeah, well,” BJ said, sighing. “There was the rub.” He led Hawkeye to the kitchen, and began looking through the back of his cabinets to see what there was to drink. He found a gift-sized bottle of imported lime tequila that he didn’t quite want to get into yet at 8:30 PM, and a dusty bottle of wine he’d gotten god knew where. “I had never been there, Hawk. Everything was arranged by her. Bought by her. Her ghost… it was everywhere.”

“BJ, I’m sorry,” Hawkeye said. “That must have been really hard.”

“I only lasted a few weeks before I cracked. I was gone by the end of the month.”

“I can see why. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” BJ said. “Most people just dance around the topic until their feet turn all blue and numb.” The crystal wineglasses they’d gotten as a wedding gift were packed away in the garage, along with most of the nicer housewares, so BJ handed Hawkeye a clean mug instead. “Larry-- that’s Peg’s sister’s husband-- he helped me pack up and move. Couldn’t have done it without him.”

“Larry? I think you’ve mentioned him in some of your letters. Do you see much of each other?”

“No,” BJ replied. He wasn’t sure why Hawkeye was asking; whether he would be relieved that BJ had someone to confide in or jealous that BJ had another close friend. “They’re a few hours away, ‘cross the Oregon border. And Marnie, Peg’s sister, well, she doesn’t like too much to be reminded of what she’s lost. She does try her best to stay in Erin’s life, though, which is nice.”

“Mmm,” Hawkeye said. 

BJ couldn’t find the corkscrew in his drawers. “Hey, d’you still have that utility tool thing?” he asked Hawkeye, referring to a little multitool that Hawkeye had bought off a peddler a few weeks before BJ’s departure. 

“Say, Beej, why don’t you buy me dinner first?”

“I just did,” BJ reminded him. “C‘mon. Lemme have your knife.”

After a few minutes’ concerted effort, the cork was out, in several crumbly pieces, and the mugs were full of wine. They sat at the dining room table, taking the bottle with them. 

“Now then, where were we?” BJ asked. 

“Oh, round about the 38th parallel,” Hawkeye said. 

“Har har,” BJ replied. 

“You missed me,” Hawkeye gloated, face screwed up in glee. 

“You have no idea,” BJ said. “I don’t know if I said it before, but it is damn good to see your face.”

“Ah ah ah, Beej, that’s  _ darn _ ,” Hawkeye corrected. 

“So, how are you doing? Gotta be kind of hard to wrap your head around.”

“I haven’t even begun to process it,” Hawkeye confessed. “Every time I get a second to think, I have to pinch myself. I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up attached to a saline I.V. in post-op, with a bad case of the flu, or a hangover even. It’s… it’s the only thing I’ve ever prayed for in my life.” Hawkeye let out a bitter little laugh. “I am not nearly drunk enough for this conversation.” He tilted his head back as he downed the rest of his wine in a few continuous gulps. 

“‘Fraid I’m a bit of a teetotaler these days,” BJ said apologetically, as he took a small sip of wine. 

“Teetotaler with a toddler,” Hawkeye said. “I get it.”

“Gotta say, though, it was kinda rough giving it up pretty much cold turkey.”

“Yeah, I bet. Luckily for me, though, I intend to do no such thing.”

“You could do worse for yourself,” BJ pointed out. “You’ve got over a decade of heavy drinking under your belt.”

“Which still fits fine, Doc.”

“Because half your meals are clear liquor.”

“Oh, so one year off the sauce and he’s Lady Temperance.”

“Well, no, I’m drinking, aren’t I? I’m just concerned for a dear friend’s organs. Because without the dear friend’s organs, there’s no dear friend.”

“Alright, alright, I take your point,” Hawkeye said as he grabbed the bottle and poured himself another glass. “I’ll taper off, under your wise medical supervision. But here’s the thing. I’ve been at war, against my own will— ha— for almost exactly a quarter of my life. I am tired, I am weary, I am jaded, I see dead teenagers every time I close my eyes. And today I stepped foot on home soil for the first time since my early thirties. And my best friend is splashed upside-down across my retinas for the first time in over a year. Tonight, dearest Dr. Hunnicutt, is not the night I begin.” Hawkeye raised his mug—  _ See Sunny San Diego! _ — in toast, and BJ raised his to meet it. The ceramic vessels made a dull clink as they met. “And I’d never dare have enough to get rowdy, not with a toddler in the house.”

“Oh, no,” BJ said, waving away the assurance. “I trust you completely.” He topped up his own glass a bit. Hawkeye’s exuberance, combined with the first pleasurable waves of the alcohol’s effect, sent a warm, euphoric merriment through his limbs. “Say, Hawk?”

“Yes, dear?”

BJ faltered a moment. He wasn’t sure how to bring it up. “Don’t you…. Well, there  _ are  _ bars in San Francisco,” he pointed out. “And those bars  _ do _ have women in them.”

Hawkeye considered this, setting his mug down. 

“Heard American bars were overpriced, anyway,” he said after a minute, and BJ knew this was his way of letting him know he’d rather be here, with him. “And besides, I have a little feeling that if you found out I’d been in San Fran without letting you know, I’d be down a best friend.”

“Mmm.” BJ wasn’t fully convinced. “Hawkeye,” he said after taking a long drink, to compose his thoughts. “It’s not going to be like it was before,” he warned. 

Hawkeye's face fell, subtly, and BJ thought he could see a flash of— was that  _ insecurity?? _ — in his eyes.

“I just mean,” he continued, “I won’t be able to join you out on the town like we used to.”

“Oh. Beej, you think I want to carry on that way?” Hawkeye laughed. “That— all of that— that was an escape,” he said. “A damn good one. And I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t ever be hitting the town on occasion. But, christ, I’ll have to get a job soon,” he said. 

“Oh? Nothing waiting for you back in Maine?”

Hawkeye hesitated. “No, I haven’t set anything up yet,” he admitted. 

“So, if you don’t mind my asking,” BJ said, sensing that it was a sore spot, “what is your plan?”

“Well, to be honest, BJ, I got on a plane this morning, or something, and I was supposed to get on another one around dinner time. That’s all I had.”

“So, you skipped your flight?” BJ felt a small flutter of something in his gut. He resolutely ignored it. 

“Yeah, I thought I told you that.” Hawkeye shifted his weight on the chair. “But it seemed a damned waste to touch down in Northern California without stopping by.”

“Well, I’m thrilled.” BJ reached out to put a hand on Hawkeye’s arm. Their tactile friendship was returning, despite a year apart, and BJ was a bit overwhelmed by how solid his friend felt beneath his hand. “And you’re right, too. I’d have been pretty hurt if I found out you’d come and gone without so much as a word. You know I tried to call you, when I heard the news.”

“You did?”

“Day and night,” BJ confirmed. “Line was tied up pretty constantly, though. I guess it makes sense. There was a whole damn war to mop up. That’s gotta take a lot of red tape.”

“Well, I must confess, you probably wouldn’t have reached me anyhow.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye said. “I found out the war was over, and I about drank the still.” He chuckled. “Say, you may have a point on that whole liver thing.”

“Well, a man of your habits, worst thing you can do is quit cold turkey,” BJ said. 

“You did.”

“Well, it wasn’t cold turkey,” BJ said. “I don’t know how I phrased it, but there were definitely some, ah, night time supplements.”

“BJ Hunnicutt! You naughty boy,” Hawkeye laughed. 

“Well, I had just buried my wife,” BJ said. 

It was as if he had played a sour note. The room felt a bit awkward, the air a bit thin all of a sudden. Hawkeye’s smile turned sad. 

“BJ, I’m—”

“Aw, no, no you don’t. Shut up,” BJ said, rather gently. “I know you mean well, but damn, I finally have nighttime company for the first time in so long, I don’t want to waste it on deep melancholy. It’s like you said. We should be celebrating you and your freedom.”

“Not to mention South Korea’s,” Hawkeye said. “Nighttime company? Why, BJ, I never took you for that kind of girl.”

“Shut up,” BJ said, suddenly unable to think of a clever comeback. Hawkeye had a way of making his skin feel warm. BJ chalked it up to the unnatural oddness of being flirted at by a man. He’d forgotten just how relentless Hawkeye’s instinct to charm everyone in his path had been. Dr. Morris certainly had never joked about these kinds of things. “So, speaking of celebrating,” he said, “how does it really feel?”

“How does what really feel?”

“You know! Finally graduating to veteran status! You’re home free, baby!”

Hawkeye took a long drink, refilled his mug with the remainder of the wine, and took another one. 

“You know, it’s the queerest thing,” he said after a moment. “I don’t think I feel anything at all, yet.”

“You alluded to being overjoyed.”

“Well, yes, certainly,” Hawkeye said. “I’m so sick of blood I’ve been thinking of getting trained as a dermatologist.” He leaned back, sighing. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“Oh, I don’t think we’re deep enough in our cups, yet.” Hawkeye’s face clouded. BJ felt himself frown. Something was eating his friend. 

“Can I hazard a guess?” 

“You can hazard anything you like. It’s your house.”

“Okay…. you’re feeling lost. You’re feeling like you’ve changed. You’re feeling afraid to go home, since you’re not the man you were when you were last there. You’re feeling afraid to go home, since home mightn’t be the same place it was when you were last there. You’re afraid of adjusting to civilian life. You’re afraid that, given the opportunity to sleep well, and eat well, and have your evenings in peace, you won’t know who you are anymore. You’re afraid you’ll lose your sense of purpose. You’re afraid the mundanity of civilian life will drive you mad, and you won’t be able to admit it because you sure as hell don’t want to be back in Korea. And you’re afraid that all that trauma, all those everyday horrors that just kept coming, one after the other, so fast you didn’t have time to process them, let alone let go of them, will all catch up to you at once the second you stop to catch your breath. You’re afraid that you’ll finally realize you’ve lost years of your life to a pointless, futile exercise in meaningless cruelty and gore.” As he spoke, BJ’s voice sped up, and grew slightly louder. When he finally broke off, he was panting slightly, taken aback by the vehemence of his own speech. 

“Well,” Hawkeye said after a moment. “All of the above. And then, there’s—“ he stopped short, and winced. 

“There’s what?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Hey, BJ?”

“Yeah?”

“Got anything stronger?”

* * *

  
The tequila was gone, and it was barely past eleven. Hawkeye lay sprawled across the floral print sofa, BJ sitting on the floor against it, his head by Hawkeye’s arm. Hawkeye was regaling some incoherent shaggy dog story of…  _ something  _ that had happened. BJ wasn’t really sure what. His head swam comfortably, and his body felt warm and numb. He let his eyelids drift shut, lost in the warm, deep sound of his best friend’s voice. He could hear its vibrations though the couch. BJ reached behind him, and draped Hawkeye’s arm across his chest. It seemed to radiate heat, and BJ felt like a cat in a sunbeam. Hawkeye paused for a long moment, but then continued speaking, and through the pleasant haze of a drunk mind, BJ felt, for the first time in a very long time, that he was home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for inventing random in-laws oops
> 
> As always, please point out my typos so I can put myself in the town pillory and throw rotten root cellar goods at me own head. I reread before posting but ADHD brain makes me gloss over the mistakes sometimes and I'm sure they're still in there. 
> 
> Also, the Altman MASH movie makes me mostly bored and outraged enough that I have to be absolutely sky zooted to watch it but boy do I think Alda Hawkeye needs to say 'babe' a lot more
> 
> My tumblr is sorcerer-spock.tumblr.com if you want to hang out!


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